I have always been frozen by anger. I grew up with a mother whose anger came out of nowhere. I was with a man for twenty four years who terrorized me with his anger. I was a victim; the receipient of the anger of others. I struggled with depression for decades. I dared not fight back. I had seen anger. It was terrible, frightening, a destroyer. If allowed my anger out, it would devour me.

My husband and I are working through a rough patch just now. His grief over his son’s death shows itself as anger. And although it is not meant for me, I often bear the brunt of it. But for the first time, I know I don’t deserve it. And ironically, it makes me angry. For the first time in my life, I am not afraid to be angry. I realize anger is an emotion, that’s all. And I also know that I have many reasons to be angry – angry that my father died when I was nine; angry that I was never enough for my mother; angry that I spent twenty-four years with a man who made me believe I was worthless. I deserve to be angry. It is part of me. I recognize it; I embrace it; and I let it go. Anger becomes a monster only if you let it be who you are. I am not an angry person but I am a person who gets angry. And that’s OK.